I Took Her Life… Now Her Son Calls Me Mommy

~ Rose ~ “I need you to stay late tonight.” The words don’t even land anymore. They just… pass through me. “How late?” I ask, still typing, still staring at numbers that stopped meaning anything hours ago. “Finish the quarterly projections before you go.” Of course. I nod once, because that’s what I’ve trained myself to do. Agree first. Feel later. If there’s anything left to feel. The office is thinning out. Chairs empty. Conversations fading. The soft hum of the AC fills the space like a quiet reminder that the world keeps running whether I stop or not. My phone buzzes. I ignore it. It buzzes again. Then again. I sigh, reaching for it, already tired of whatever it’s about to show me. Unknown number. I open it anyway. A picture loads slowly. A bed. White sheets. A man’s bare back. Familiar. Too familiar. My thumb freezes on the screen as the angle shifts just enough for me to see his face. My husband. Relaxed. Smiling. Looking like someone who has nowhere else to be. Like he isn’t married. The message comes right after saying. “You should probably stop embarrassing yourself with all that IVF stuff. He’s clearly not interested in having a baby with you.” I stare at it. No immediate reaction. No tears. No anger. I was just…quiet. Because this isn’t new. Not really. It’s just… confirmed. Another message comes in. My husband this time. “Working late again?” My lips part slightly. I almost laugh. Almost. “Yeah,” I reply Three dots appear. Disappear. Then— “Don’t wait up.” his message says I stare at that longer than anything else. Don’t wait up. Like I ever had anything waiting for me. Like I haven’t been running myself into the ground trying to build something that never wanted to exist in the first place. My gaze drifts to the email still open on my laptop. Fertility Centre — Payment Reminder. Outstanding balance. Next cycle pending. Next cycle. I lean back slowly in my chair, staring at the ceiling. Thirty-nine. Thirty-nine years old, injecting hormones into my body like I’m negotiating with time itself. Thirty-nine, working overtime shifts to afford treatments my husband doesn’t even pretend to care about. Thirty-nine, still hoping for something that clearly isn’t coming. My hand moves to my stomach without thinking. Empty. Always empty. I press my lips together, swallowing past the tightness in my throat. I did everything right. Saved. Sacrificed. Stayed. Waited. I made myself smaller so everything else could fit. And for what? A cheating husband. A failing body. A life that feels like it’s already over but somehow keeps going. My chest tightens suddenly. Sharp. I inhale quickly, sitting up straight. “Okay…” My hand presses against my chest. It doesn’t ease. It spreads. My heartbeat stutters, then races too fast, like it’s trying to escape something. The room blurs and tilts slightly. I blink. Focus on the screen. The numbers blur. “Not now…” I whisper, pushing my chair back. I try to stand. The floor shifts under me immediately. My hand slams against the desk to steady myself, but my fingers don’t feel right. Numb. Weak. My phone slips from my other hand and hits the ground with a crack that sounds too loud. Everything sounds too loud. “Hey—” My voice comes out thin and distant. My knees give out. U fall to the floor the impact is dull. Delayed. People are talking. I think I hear footsteps. “Rose—? Rose!” someone calls out That’s my name. It takes me a second to realise they’re talking to me. My vision tunnels, darkness creeping in from the edges. My body feels… far away. Like I’m not inside it anymore. Hands touch me. Someone turns me. Voices overlap. “She’s not responding—” “Call emergency—” “Rose, can you hear me?” I can. I just… can’t answer. My chest rises unevenly. Breath-catching. Then slipping. Then catching again. I’m lifted. The world shifts. Next thing I know. I see bright lights above me as I’m wheeled forward. A stretcher. I recognise where I am slowly. The hospital. That’s where this is going. Funny. After all that money… all those appointments… This is how I end up there. Not for treatment. For this. Voices blur around me. “She’s hypotensive—” “Pulse is unstable—” “Stay with us, ma’am—” Stay with us. I want to laugh. I don’t have the energy. My eyes drift closed halfway, then open again, barely. The ceiling lights pass over me in slow intervals. White…..White…..White. My life flashes, not in meaningful memories. Just… moments. Working late. Counting money. Skipping meals. Injecting myself in the bathroom with shaking hands. Sitting across from doctors explaining the probability of me conceiving like they’re talking about numbers instead of my life. Catching my husband texting someone else and pretending I didn’t see it. Smiling when I should’ve left. Staying when I should’ve stopped. Giving everything. Always giving For a life that never gave back. My chest tightens again—but this time, I felt better after finally telling myself the truth. It felt like all my problems were just floating away. I’m so tired. Not sleepy. Tired. The kind that sits in your bones and refuses to leave. The kind that makes everything feel like effort. Even breathing. Especially breathing. A thought slips in, calm and clear. Maybe… this is okay. Maybe stopping is okay. Maybe I don’t have to fight for a life that never treated me well. Maybe… Death is easier than living like this. The idea doesn’t scare me. It settles in my heart. Like relief. Like I'm finally putting something heavy down. Heavy as in my worthless life. My body feels colder. Further away. The voices fade. The lights blur into one long stretch of white. And for the first time in a long time. I stop trying. I just let go. ………… Silence. But I don't feel dead. Just… still. I’m standing. That’s the first thing I notice. No pain. No weight. Just… standing. In front of me, there was. a woman. She looks like me if I were younger and hotter. But younger. Healthier. Twenty-six, maybe. Her eyes are tired in a different way. Not worn down. Just… done. We don’t speak at first. We just look at each other. And somehow— I understand. She exhales slowly, like she’s been holding something in for too long. “My son…” Her voice is quiet, but steady. “He’s still waiting for me.” My chest tightens She steps closer. Close enough that I can see it clearly now. Her face. She has model-like features, if she hadn't mentioned having a child I would have thought she was a goddess. All of a sudden there was a name sitting on the tip of my tongue. “Rosella,” I whisper without thinking. Her lips press together slightly. Like she expected that. “Take care of him.” No explanation. No questions. Just that. The space around us starts to crack. Light bleeding through the edges. Breaking everything apart. “Wait—” I try to speak, but my voice doesn’t carry. She doesn’t stop. She just looks at me one last time. Not scared or sad. Before I could figure out what was happening everything collapsed. Next thing I know I could hear beeping. It was close. Very close. My body felt heavy but different. I felt like there was something wrapped around my fingers. Small, human and warm. Holding on tightly. “Mommy…?” My eyes snap open. And nothing… feels like mine.